


paths that lead home

by skogr



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-04 22:22:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6677644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skogr/pseuds/skogr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The two times she left him, and the two times she came back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	paths that lead home

Alistair wakes up in a bed. An actual _bed_ , with four legs and a real mattress and sheets and _pillows_ , plural. The sheets are soft enough to feel heavenly to an uncultured slob like him, but not soft enough that they’re anything more than plain and simple sheets. There's still a part of him that fears he'll wake up one day to find silk against his skin and a title he never wanted sitting heavy on his shoulders, but it's just the rough smoothness of cotton that greets him, a little worn but all the lighter for it. He likes that. No noble airs and graces, just sheets. Just a bed. Just Alistair.

He sighs happily without opening his eyes and hears a low chuckle to his right. That's the other nice thing about waking up, these days. The company’s not bad.

“You look like a cat,” she says, and he feels the mattress shift beneath him. “I half expected you to start purring.”

He opens one eye to squint in her direction, finding her propped up on one elbow and grinning lazily. He squeezes it shut again immediately after seeing her hazy outline, determined not to ruin the illusion. He's not sure precisely what illusion that is, but it's one of dappled sunlight and cotton sheets as a regular occurrence instead of a rare indulgence.

“I could get used to this.”

“Well, don’t.” He feels her move again. “This is our last night here.”

“It’s our first!”

“First and last.” She sounds amused. “We’ve got to get the recruits to -”

Alistair shushes her firmly and reaches out an arm, trying to tug her closer. “Nope.”

“What? Alistair, you know we have to -”

“Yes, I _know_ , but just - wait.” He pats the space right beside him. “It’s not real until I open my eyes. Just - let’s _pretend_ we don’t have to be anywhere. Just for five minutes.”

There’s a quiet laugh but she settles down next to him, nestled close to his side. “Five minutes.”

“Close your eyes.”

“Why?”

Alistair opens his briefly to glare balefully at her. “ _Close them_.”

“Alright, they’re closed.” She reaches out a hand to take his with, and gives it a squeeze. “What are we pretending?”

“Let’s pretend we’re just - just normal people,” he says, and she laughs again. “Let’s pretend we’re - not us.”

She takes one silent moment to digest this, then gasps in mock horror, evidently having decided she’s going to play along. “Are you telling me I’m naked in bed with a strange man?”

“I’m afraid so. _Very_ strange.”

“However did I end up in this compromising position?”

“I can be quite charming, you know. I’m very, uh. Seductive.”

“Well, clearly,” she says, and then she’s leaning above him on one elbow to kiss him and he lets the world slide back into focus: Alistair Theirin, could-have-been extraordinaire, almost-King but just another bastard, and Paige Cousland, Hero of Ferelden and beloved national treasure. And he’s alright with that. Really, he is.

“You opened your eyes,” he says mournfully, and she grins into his mouth.

“What, you don’t like being us?”

“I _do_ , but -” She kisses him again, effectively shutting him up but pulling away after a few too-short moments. He tries again. “Look, that wasn’t even _two_ minutes. C’mon -”

“Time’s up, smooth talker. Rise and shine.”

“There are laws against this kind of thing, you know. Making people get out of bed before they’re ready. It’s cruel.”

“Is that so?”

He grumbles loudly and pulls a pillow on top of his face. “I was almost the King of Ferelden. I _would’ve_ made a law.”

“Almost king,” she says airily, pulling the pillow away, “but not _quite_ , and as Warden-Commander and your _direct_ superior -” She leans in closer with an impervious expression. “I’m ordering you to _get up_.”

“You’re very bossy,” Alistair breathes, trying his utmost not to find that quite as devastatingly attractive as he currently does, but Paige’s grin is sharp. She knows, of course.

Alistair pushes himself up against the headboard as Paige starts to get ready, splashing her face in the basin before starting to pull on her clothes with a thoughtful expression. Foolish, really, but he thought stopping the Blight and killing the Archdemon might actually mean things would be - well, he’s not exactly sure. He hadn’t really thought of it beyond some kind of vague, wild hope that they’d both make it through alive, and now that they actually _have_ -

He’s not sure why he’s even complaining. He just woke in a soft bed with someone he loves next to him, and (probably) nothing is going to try and kill them today. That’s normally a win in his book, but there’s something a little bit off about the way Paige is looking at him, something uneasy in the edge to the way she kissed him this morning and the night before.

He shuffles to the edge of the bed and swings his feet over the edge with an overblown sigh, designed to make her laugh. All he gets is a sideways half-smile as she pulls her last boot on.

“There’s still time,” she says, teasing but steady and serious nonetheless, “if you really want to make that law. I could march you back to Denerim. Kick Anora off the throne.”

“No thank _you_. Maybe I’ll write her a letter, suggest she put it forward for consideration.”

“Only if you’re sure,” Paige says, and cocks her head sideways at him. “You would’ve been a good king, you know.”

He’s getting distinctly uncomfortable with the lack of humour in her tone. “You should see the other proposed laws I’ve been working on. Might change your mind. There’s a great one about portion sizes of cheese -”

“I have to go to Amaranthine,” she says suddenly, because that’s how Paige operates: she doesn’t say what she means until she says it all at once. She cradles things close to her chest until she’s ready to let them go carefully and decisively, in her own time. He gets it, he really does. It doesn’t make it any easier to be on the receiving end, although - and this brings a gentle pang of guilt - she probably knows that first hand. She never said _Alistair, why didn’t you tell me sooner_ , and he’s not about to play that hand with her after the patience and understanding she offered him. He takes a breath, takes one small moment to adjust, and she lets him.

“Alright,” he says, mentally taking stock of their sudden change in direction, “it’s four days to Denerim, so from there -”

She shakes her head. “No. _I_ have to go.”

“What? You mean -” He doesn’t understand until he _does_ , and then suddenly, he’s angry. “I - No. That’s not how this works.”

“I need you here.”

“ _No_.”

“Alistair -”

“I’m not staying!”

She sits down beside him with a sigh, running a hand through her hair as she stares resolutely at the wall. “I don’t like it either.”

“So don’t do it.”

“Not that simple,” Paige says. “You know that. The recruits need someone to keep an eye on them, and I need someone  close to Denerim, someone with experience. Who else is there?”

Alistair’s reply is an ungracious mutter. “No one.”

“Things are still - it’s fragile.”

“I _know_.”

She looks at him then, apprehensive and unhappy, and his heart ties itself into knots.

“Paige,” Alistair says, not bothering to hide his misery. “Is this an order?”

She closes her eyes. “No. _No_ , of course not.”

“No?”

“Not an order. I’m just asking.” She smiles weakly. “Very nicely.”

It's not the first thing she's asked him to do something that he had more than a few reservations about. It's not the first time it's felt more than a little like an order, either. Order or not - he knows he's going to do it. He's going to hate it, but he'll do it, because she's right and he trusts her and he _loves_ her, and whatever else he isn't, he's still a Warden, first and foremost.

Still, he twists his mouth unhappily. “Right.” Her shoulders loosen ever so slightly, the only sign that she knows she’s won.

“I can sweeten the deal, if you’d like.” She moves a bit closer, curls one hand around the back of his neck.

“Blackmail,” he murmurs, but kisses her back anyway. It feels like a goodbye, too abrupt and final for his liking. He is vaguely frustrated even as he's amused that Paige has managed to deny him even that, sharp and sudden as it is. If he'd known last night, he would've - would've - well, he wouldn't have done anything different, but it would've _felt_ like a goodbye. Paige hates goodbyes. She’s slipped as neatly out of this one as he should have expected.

“I’ll miss you,” she whispers, so softly it’s almost lost in the rustle of the sheets as he pulls her closer.

 

-

 

She walks with them the next ten miles before their paths diverge, always too close to Alistair, brushing against him with every stride as her mabari, Soot, stays as close to her as she does to him. He doesn’t mind. She jokes with the recruits - she’s so _good_ at it, it used to be his job welcoming the newcomers into the fold, being the new-but-not-so-new friendly face they could turn to. That’s not quite what Paige is; she’s their Warden-Commander and the Hero of Ferelden. They’re still in awe.

They’re not in awe of him, though, and that’s how he likes it. Almost-King but Gray Warden first and foremost, comic relief before judicial authority, Blight veteran but no one special beyond that. Although - he hopes they’re a _little_ awed, actually. He did kill an Archdemon. He doesn’t mind if they want to admire that.

Paige grabbed him by the front of his shirt and dragged him into her tent the first night they set up camp, apparently determined to set the record straight. Alistair hadn’t been sure if she was going to play it discreet, keeping a respectful distance at all times and privately already mourning the good old days before she was Warden-Commander and chain of command was more than just “well, everyone else is dead.” She wasn’t having any of it. Of course, that dropped the recruits’ jaws much more effectively than any story he’d told them. (Which, _really?_ He _killed an Archdemon_. A little appreciation would be nice. Is it honestly easier to believe that he vanquished an ancient evil foe than he’s achieved some kind of romantic success?)

So when she tugs him closer by the collar at the crossroad, no one bats an eyelid. They're used to this.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she says firmly, and half-looks over his shoulder where the rest of their group are looking away, scuffing their feet and giving them privacy as best they can. “You know what to do. Kill darkspawn. Protect Denerim. Nice and simple.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Alistair offers weakly, letting one of his hands flutter somewhere by her cheek. She grabs it and holds it against her face.

“I love you,” she says, with the kind of forcefulness that is just so _Paige_ and so heartbreakingly familiar his breath catches, after telling himself over and over he wasn’t going to do this. He swallows slowly. “Be safe.”

“I love you too,” he manages, far quieter than her but no less sincere. She pulls him into a crushing kiss and he hears a few cleared throats behind them. It doesn’t matter. He’ll take the teasing; he knows how it goes.

And then she’s gone, decisive as ever, and Alistair tries not to watch her disappear over the hill as he spins round to fix the recruits with a defensive stare. “You heard the lady,” he says, and to his mild surprise, they snap into formation without a single snicker or flicker of resentment. He grins, suddenly heartened.

By his feet, Soot whines, and Alistair scratches him between the ears with a sigh. “Yeah, yeah. Tell me about it.”

 

-

 

She writes after a sort, sends little messages to him by way of runners that he tries not to snatch from their hands _too_ desperately. They're not quite personal correspondence, closer to military dispatches from the Warden-Commander to her de facto second in command. He'll take whatever he can get.

Her writing is _awful_ , impossibly dreadful, and he can't believe he didn't know this about her. It's scratchy and borderline illegible, and as much as he wants to keep them for himself he sits squinting over it by the fire at night, beckoning Zip over to offer her opinion on a particularly mysterious word. (“Does that really say _Nathaniel Howe_ ?” he asks her for the hundredth time. “Are you sure? And _Oghren?_ ”)

He imagines little Paige Cousland scratching out this abomination of an alphabet as her tutors tear their hair out, and it makes him grin.

 _Darkspawn even in the bloody basement,_ she writes, her spiky cursive slanting even more in irritation, _could've used you._

For a moment, he almost takes it as an invitation. Nearly swings his pack cheerfully over his back, bids them a hearty goodbye, and hot-foots it to Amaranthine before he can talk himself out of it. _Sorry_ , he'd say, _Paige needs me._

But Zip’s watching him with wide eyes and Soot whines like he knows exactly what's running through Alistair’s mind, and he sighs in resignation because he's not going anywhere.

Zip is the newest, an alienage elf from Denerim who all but leapt into their path and begged to join the Wardens with starry eyed wonder. Dex tried to pickpocket Paige in the market district, Sam she liberated from the City Watch for drawing a knife on a noble with most _ignoble_ intentions, and Kinnick actually _left_ the City Watch to join, much to everyone's surprise. They’re all fully fledged Wardens now, guided through a clumsy Joining by Alistair and an Orlesian Warden who spoke only an obtuse smattering of Common, and disappeared with his fellows to Amaranthine soon after. Alistair supposes he’s dead now, as per Paige’s sombre letter. Didn’t even catch his name.

Zip’s his favourite, because she's a romantic. If he wants to sit by the fire mooning over a letter she tends to indulge him, maybe even shoot him a few sympathetic glances. Sam tends to just make obscene gestures at him from across the camp until Alistair puts the letter away, ears burning. It's actually a much more effective way of curtailing his moping, but he won't tell Sam that.

He rubs his thumb over the jagged shapes of _could've used you_ , over the impatient loops and lines, and instead of the invitation he wants, he sees it for what it is. _I miss you,_ it says, _and we make a good team_.

It says, _it feels wrong without you_ , and he couldn't agree more. They've been practically each other's shadows for such a long time, from the moment he woke up outside Flemeth’s hut demanding to see her, his world falling down around his ears. Paige was straight out of her own personal tragedy, though he didn't know it at the time, and she had learned the hard way to keep those you cared about as close as you can. And she had _cared_ about him despite barely knowing him, she'd cared about little old Alistair blubbering about his dead friends when the whole world was in danger, she squeezed his shoulder and she kept him close.

He breathes a heavy sigh down at the letter and hears Sam snicker. He looks up with a glare and - oh yes, there's that charming gesture again. He tries his best to look coolly unconcerned.

“You wouldn't do that if she was here,” Alistair says, hoping he sounds suitably disapproving. He's supposed to be in charge, after all.

“Yes I would,” Sam shoots back indignantly, “you'd know if you ever came up for air.”

“I - you - I _don't_ _-”_

Alistair shoves the letter forcefully into his pocket and maintains the most dignified silence he can manage with his _entire face on fire._

 

-

 

Alistair’s poor sleeping habits, as it turns out, aren’t so much a Warden thing as they are a being-without-Paige thing. Of course, neither of them are free of the nightmares, but tucked against each other they always seemed to find themselves in more pleasant sections of the Fade for a more or less respectable duration. He had forgotten just how badly he used to sleep, how badly they _both_ used to sleep - Paige crawling out her tent blearily as Alistair had long ago abandoned all pretension of restfulness and instead took watch by the fire.

They would talk, sometimes, quietly and under their breath as everyone else slept, the last two Wardens in Ferelden bound together by something no one else could understand. Sometimes, in that liminal space by the crackle of the fire, things would shift. Paige would prop herself up against his side and he would hope fervently that she couldn't feel the yammering of his heart through the blankets. Eventually, her head would drop onto his shoulder and she would sleep. He’d been so desperately awkward about it, hardly daring to move even after his legs had gone numb and his whole body had seized up.

It’s just him now, sitting by the fire and listening to the quiet sounds of the camp. He wonders if Paige is lying awake in Amaranthine, too.

“Darkspawn,” Zip says suddenly, sitting up with a start. “There's darkspawn -”

“Just a dream,” Alistair cuts across her, and Zip flops back onto her roll with a sigh. “Go back to sleep.”

“Tummy felt funny,” she mumbles, rolling onto her front.

“Hungry?”

She considers this for a moment. “Yeah.”

Alistair grins; this is why he likes her, a kid after his own heart. He tosses her a piece of dried beef from his pack, taking another for himself. “Yeah, you get used to that too.”

Zip stays quiet for a moment, chewing thoughtfully on the beef. “Do you get ‘em?”

“The dreams? Yes.”

“Does the commander?” She never calls Paige by anything else, and always with that edge of hushed reverence.

“Yes.”

“Then how come neither of you wake up screaming?” She sounds embarrassed somewhere amongst the self deprecation, the same as Paige. He can only offer her the same cheerful solidarity he'd offered then.

“You get used to it,” Alistair says, and then because it's Zip asking, chuckles and adds, “She used to, though.”

Zip is quiet for another long moment. “I can't imagine her being afraid of anything.”

“Spiders,” Alistair offers, though his brain immediately provides him with a thousand more truthful answers. Zip doesn't need to hear those. “And my cooking.”

That gets a snort from Dex, but a beatific sigh from Zip. “But she eats it anyway,” she says, as if that demonstrates some kind of transcendental romance rather than the practicalities of camp and limited food resources.

“Well, er -”

“When did you know you loved her?” Zip fixes him with an enraptured stare. “Was it straight away?”

“Shut up, Zip,” comes a muffled groan from Sam’s blanket, and Alistair clears his throat awkwardly, wondering if he's excused from answering. Zip is still looking at him expectantly.

And suddenly, he's tongue tied. He's looked for every possible excuse to talk about her over the past few months, and now Zip has given him the perfect opening and he's completely at a loss.

He is vaguely surprised to find that he doesn’t know. He can’t sift through all the moments and memories and find one that stands out, can’t neatly draw a line between before he loved Paige and after. He loved her in the small ways before he loved her in the bigger ones.

“I - “ He opens and closes his mouth a few times like some kind of ridiculous fish. “That’s - I, uh -”

Zip seems to take pity on him even as Sam snickers, and she offers him a lifeline with gentle sympathy. “You must miss her.”

Alistair doesn’t have to answer that one, grimacing sheepishly at his knees.

Zip looks as she’s about to say something else but jolts upright instead with a gasp. “Darkspawn! There are -”

“Maker, Zip, _shut up_ and eat something, I’m sick of hearing you yelling -”

“No,” Alistair says, reaching for his sword. “I feel it, too.”

After that, it’s a rush of Zip scrabbling for her daggers and Dex shaking Kinnick awake, Alistair and Soot taking point to meet the group of hurlocks heading towards their camp. There’s only a few; it’s just stragglers left behind intent on avoiding detection and for once not looking to spill Warden blood, and it’s over quickly.

Afterwards, Kinnick pulls his sword from a dead darkspawn’s belly with a grunt, shooting Alistair an appraising look. Kinnick is the only one of the new recruits with a comprehensive history of combat training, having been a member of the City Watch for over a decade. He beckons Alistair closer as the rest trudge back to camp, bemoaning their muddy feet and bloodstained clothes.

“Wouldn't matter with so few of them,” Kinnick says gruffly, “but you left your right side open.”

Alistair winces. It's where Paige always is, and he can tell from Kinnick’s reluctant tone that he's worked that out and maybe even feels cruel for bringing it to his attention. It’s a stupid mistake. Stupid, _stupid_ mistake. Alistair didn’t survive a Blight and kill an Archdemon just to die because of one stupid mistake like that. He knows better. He could just kick himself - and Paige _would_ , if she were here.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Right. Got it.”

“Just letting you know,” Kinnick says, patting him on the shoulder. “Don't worry about it.”

“It's a stupid mistake. I should _never_ have -”

“It's the middle of the night,” Kinnick says kindly, “old habits die hard, and harder when you're half asleep.”

Alistair snorts. “I wasn’t asleep, it was my watch.”

“When isn't it?” Kinnick shoots him a sideways look that is a shade too pitying for Alistair’s liking. “Get some real sleep, lad. I'll take it from here.”

Alistair offers his embarrassed thanks and slinks away to his tent, feeling very stupid and very young and most of all, so very sick of the empty space beside him he can't seem to compensate for.

 _Could’ve used you_ , he thinks.

It means, _I miss you_ , and it means, _it feels wrong without you._

 

-

 

Alistair finds a small - and rather grisly - form of comfort in the fact that there's plenty darkspawn to be had in the areas surrounding Denerim. He finds a larger - and far more petty - kind in making a point of resenting Amaranthine at every turn.

He finds something less definable but perhaps more satisfying in the way Zip learns to slot in on his right, taking the space that used to be Paige’s, that used to be Duncan’s. _It's not the same_ , a traitorous little voice whispers in his head, and feels immediately disloyal for even entertaining the thought. It's not the same, but it doesn't have to be. Zip is good: she's fast and adaptable, and he doesn't mind that it's a habit he doesn't seem to be able to shake. He was never really any good at doing things on his own, anyway.

They’re only a few hours from Denerim when they find a pile of dead darkspawn lying sprawled across the road, Zip hovering just behind him as has become her custom. Sam breathes out a sigh of relief, but it leaves Alistair a little uneasy. They’ve been following a steady trail of darkspawn for the past few days, enough to concern him. He was expecting to find some kind of encampment before now.

“They're just so…” Zip wrinkles her nose, nudging one with her foot. “So… disgusting.”

Alistair grins. “Is it the smell?”

“The smell, and everything else.”

“Well, I hear they're _talking_ in Amaranthine,” he says, “so count your blessings.”

Zip shudders delicately. “One starts talking to me, I don't care what it has to say, I'm sticking a dagger in its throat.”

“Good plan.” Alistair flips a darkspawn corpse over with the toe of his boot. “Seems like someone else had the right idea.” He surveys the five bodies in front of them with the discerning eye of someone who has become somewhat of a connoisseur. Quick and clean. Five less for them to worry about. Zip bobs on the balls of her feet as she watches him, the others having lost interest in the bodies - admittedly, something they’ve seen more than enough of.

“More Wardens?” Zip says, sounding almost wistful.

“Could be.” He frowns. “I suppose they could be passing through on the way to the Vigil, but I didn't think we were due more reinforcements.”

“Maybe there are more from Orlais.”

He hedges a little, not wanting to shoot Zip down entirely. “Maybe.”

For the briefest of brief moments, he lets himself entertain the ridiculous possibility that it was Paige. The knife wounds are precise and practiced, exactly how she’d do it. It’s also exactly how every other trained soldier with a pair of daggers would do it, of course. It’s a very vain, very stupid hope.

All the same, it’s a nice one. Stranger things have happened, especially when it comes to Paige.

 

-

 

They follow close on the trail of their mystery darkspawn slayer for a little while longer, finally catching up as dusk is beginning to fall. Alistair silently holds out a hand to stop his companions before they draw too close, nothing more to identify their mysterious helper by than a hazy silhouette with a pair of daggers and a careless grace in the way they move. Killing darkspawn doesn't necessarily make them a friend, and there are plenty opportunistic bandits on the road these days. If they're friendly, all the better, but if they're not, he's in favour of letting them take out the darkspawn first. They certainly don't seem to find it challenging.

Alistair watches the familiar way the stranger drives the dagger into the neck of the nearest darkspawn, and it's a vain, stupid, _desperate_ hope, but -

\- it’s Paige. It _is_ Paige. He knows it in his bones.

He can’t say quite how he knows it from a shadowy outline, but it's her. She's in Amaranthine, and she's the Warden-Commander at Vigil’s Keep surrounded by allies and friends, and she can't _possibly_ be travelling alone not seven miles from Denerim, but there she is, ten feet in front of him, quickly and calmly beheading darkspawn. He stops dead in surprise, the others hovering behind him uncertainly as he just stands there gaping. Zip grabs at his elbow suddenly and he knows it's not just him.

The last one falls, and the shadowy figure straightens, still not turning to face them as she wipes her blades clean.

“There are more coming,” she says dispassionately, and if he hasn't been completely sure it was her before he _knows_ it now, recognises the bored cadence of the voice she uses when she's being the Warden-Commander, low and a little haughty. He's amused to find it turned on _him_ , this time. “I'd advise you head back to Denerim.”

“You know,” he says conversationally, “we did actually have this under control. You're making us look bad.”

She whips around then, eyes wide and astonished and all haughty authority gone. “ _Alistair_?”

“Hi,” he offers weakly, because _thank the Maker you're back, I'm useless without_ you seems a bit much. The space between them is suddenly a vast chasm of the missing months and all the ways he missed her, even as she takes a slow step towards him. He doesn't know quite how to cross it.

Her hair is longer. She’s acquired a new set of daggers from somewhere or other. There's a new, thin scar stretching from ear to nose, still raised and pink. She's - she's _there_ -

Of course, because Alistair’s life is the way it is, that's exactly when a fresh wave of darkspawn thunders out of the undergrowth. Of _course_. He wouldn't normally have been taken by surprise, would've sensed them long before they were anywhere near close enough, his blood thrumming with the frantic warning that heralds their proximity. Instead, every last inch of him is focused entirely on Paige, a strange miracle in itself that she can eclipse even that.

They all snap into action, Alistair knocking one back with his shield as he swings his sword clean through the neck of another, moving closer to Paige before he even realises he's doing it. They all form a tight circle, back to back as they lunge and parry, and there she is: a vengeful flurry of blades to his right. Everything he's been missing. The months and endless Makerforsaken _months_ he's been the senior Warden of their group, the ways he's become accustomed to calling the shots and issuing orders - that isn't a hard habit to break at all. From the moment Paige opens her mouth to give them all the first terse command, he falls into line as fluidly as if he never stopped.

It's a funny thing, just being yourself again. Everything feels a little lighter.

She kills the last darkspawn to run at them with one violently elaborate movement, daggers crossing over each other as she decapitates it, sending an arc of dark blood spraying outwards. It probably says something very strange about his life that he watches this gory display with a vague sort of pride and admiration.

It's the kind of move she never used to employ, too messy and risky when you're travelling with a party of non-Wardens still vulnerable to the Taint in their enemies’ blood. It's a little glimpse into the way he imagines she used to fight, back when she was just a noble, back when she could afford to be a little more flashy and careless. It’s not a situation in life he usually finds endearing, but he likes to think of a simpler time for her. When she was happy without reservations.

The darkspawn falls to the ground noiselessly and Paige sheaths her blades with a businesslike movement.

“Well,” she says a little breathlessly, and he realises he's still stood gaping at her like an idiot even as Soot hurls himself towards her in undisguised delight. She stumbles back with a grin as the excited bundle of mabari hits, still watching Alistair even as she rubs Soot behind the ears. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he repeats uselessly. “So. You're here.”

“I'm here.”

“Not in Amaranthine.”

“No.” She grins again, nudges Soot’s head away gently. “Not in Amaranthine.”

Alistair is only ever so vaguely aware of their audience, still rather dumbstruck. “And you're here.”

“Yes,” she says, definitely amused now. “Miss me?”

It may as well be an order, the way she says it. _Show me how much_. Imperiously, with enough playfulness to soften the edges of the demand, and just a hint of something that you wouldn't think was apprehension unless you knew her well.

Alistair has always been good at obeying her orders, and it's just the push he needs to move from disbelief to delight, wrapping his arms around her waist and lifting her up in a swift movement. Maybe not such a vast chasm, after all. It takes her by surprise for a moment, but then she frames his face with her hands and leans into the kiss with enthusiasm.

It lasts a little longer than is probably polite, but he doesn’t care. She pulls back eventually but only an inch or so, grinning into the warm space between their lips. “So… was that a yes?”

“I don't know what you're talking about, this is how I greet everyone.”

“Mmm,” she says, the hand around his neck gripping tight enough it's almost sore. “Maybe I should go away more often.”

“ _No_.”

A breathy ghost of a laugh skitters across his cheek. “Ahh, so you did miss me.”

“Don't know where you’d get that idea.”

“Are you done?” Sam says flatly, distinctly unimpressed. “Just, you know, with all the _darkspawn we're supposed to be fighting_ -”

Alistair sheepishly lowers Paige to the ground, but she just stares right back at Sam, coolly implacable. “So secure the perimeter.”

He expects Sam to snort and refuse but instead her face goes through a series of disgruntled expressions before settling on resigned. “Commander,” she says, the deference clear. It's not that Sam ever actually disobeyed Alistair in Paige’s absence, but he could never have bypassed the grumbling quite so efficiently.

Zip is giving him a delighted double thumbs up as Sam grabs her by the arm and drags her away, calling out a cheery greeting to Paige as she goes.

Paige ignores them completely and instead cradles his face between her palms with a frown, assessing him as critically as he'd studied her only moments before. He runs a thumb over the new, pink scar on her cheek as she grimaces at the healing wound above his eyebrow.

“I thought I’d find you further west.”

“Well, I thought you were in Amaranthine.”

Paige snorts. “No.”

“Not that I’m complaining,” he says, “but why are you here?”

She traces his jaw with a finger carelessly, shaking her head. “To get you,” she says, as if it’s obvious. He’s supposes in a way, it is.

He grins. “You could’ve sent a note.”

“I’m not going back to Amaranthine,” she says fiercely, her sudden fervour unexpected.

“You’re the Warden-Commander,” he tells her, and he can’t quite decide if it’s a gentle reminder or a reprimand. The way Paige looks back at him seems to say the same thing, eyebrows raising slightly. He tries to duck his head sheepishly into the crook of her neck, but she holds his face in place, as gentle as she is unyielding.

“I never asked for that.” She fixes him with a steadily defiant glare. “I never asked for any of this. I was just the last one left, and - and I’m not anymore.”

“There are still darkspawn. We’re still Wardens -”

“As if I could forget that.” She returns to tracing the lines of his cheeks with her thumbs, her expression softening. “I’ve got a lot to tell you that I couldn’t put in letters. Nothing is quite what I thought it was, not the darkspawn, not the Wardens, not -” She laughs weakly. “Not me either, I suppose. I know you think it’s worth dying for, Alistair, but - forgive me - I’ve rather got a taste for living lately.”

His voice is hoarse. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that Amaranthine will do just fine without me, but I don’t think I’ll ever be quite right without you. I want answers, and I want to do what’s right but I want to _live_ , and I want you to want that too.”

He slides an arm around her waist. “You’ve lost me, I’m afraid.”

She smiles at him, almost sadly. “ _In death, sacrifice_. That’s part of the deal, isn’t it? We may as well hold our own funerals, at least the Legion is honest about it.”

“Paige - “

“No, listen.” She hovers a finger just in front of his lips, not quite an order. He obeys nonetheless. “We did it. We did our part. We killed the Archdemon, and by all the normal rules we shouldn’t even be alive and together.”

He purses his lips against the protests he wants to make. It’d be hypocritical, now, to regret whatever it is they did to avoid that particular outcome. He finds that despite his sensibilities to the contrary, he can’t truly find a part of him that wishes he hadn’t. She’s right - they’re together, they’re alive. Perhaps it makes him a bad Warden, but perhaps it doesn’t have to. They still ended the Blight. They haven’t been struck by lightning yet.

“I saw - things, in Amaranthine,” she continues, “and I’m not sure the normal rules apply anymore, or if they even ever did. I need to _know_ , Alistair.”

“To know what?”

“The truth about the darkspawn. About the Taint.” She shrugs. “I can’t quite be happy with going quietly to the Deep Roads one day and just giving up, not anymore. Not if there’s even a _chance_ -” She bites back the end of that sentence, chewing on her lip instead. “Can you?”

Alistair closes his eyes. His next words feel like a betrayal. _Forgive me, Duncan_. “No.”

The next thing he feels is the gentle brush of Paige’s lips on his. “We’ll take the recruits, just the six of us. We’ll find answers.”

“Seven.” He gives her a reproachful look. “You forgot Soot.”

Paige laughs quietly. “Just the seven of us, then.”

“And you won’t go anywhere,” he murmurs, “whatever happens, we’ll be together -”

“Whatever happens,” she says resolutely, her grip on him too tight once more. “Together.”

The Wardens offered Alistair friendship, purpose, a way to escape his own miserable legacy, but they also offered him death. It was all they could offer, and in turn, it was all he knew how to offer Paige. _A Warden must strike the killing blow_ , they said, and he knew without a shadow of doubt that it would be him. That much he could give her. He was just a bastard, unfit and unwilling even to nurse any scrap of royalty in his blood until it resembled something like leadership or sovereignty. In another life, she would have deserved better, but in this one, all she got was him, and this was all he knew how to give her.

All Paige ever wanted from him was _life_ , and he’s only just starting to understand quite what that means.

“Together,” he says, and she takes his hand with a smile that promises dappled sunlight and cotton sheets, and he thinks, _I could get used to this._

 

**Author's Note:**

> I had hoped to post both parts together as they're very interconnected, but as I seem to be writing this at a glacial pace, here's the first! The second part will deal with the Warden's absence during DAI.


End file.
